Missed Messages
by Kaitou Jareth
Summary: A few short text messages from Mycroft could very well serve to change both John and Sherlock's lives forever.


**Author's Note: This was written as part of a Christmas present for a very dear friend. I don't own BBC's Sherlock, but I do love it to bits. Enjoy!**_  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>BEEEEEP. BEEEEEP. BEEEEEP. BEEEEEP. BEEEE-<em>

**THUD.**

"What. The. Bloody. Hell."

John Watson rolled over in bed, clutching his mobile that had up until just recently been making a godawful racket. It was four in the morning and that was his emergency ringtone, which either meant someone important was trying to get in touch with him or he was getting a message from someone who typically contacted him only in emergencies. Only a few people had their default ringtone set to this earsplitting noise, among them being Lestrade, Harry's former wife Clara, and Mycroft Holmes.

He squinted up at the mobile as he held it above his head. It was a text from Mycroft. "Bloody Mycroft and his bloody phone," he muttered as he touched the screen to read the message. In his half-asleep state, his brain only processed the words "_Happy anniversary_" before he groaned and threw the mobile back on the nightstand in disgust.

It was four in the morning of the day of Sherlock and John's anniversary, and apparently Mycroft had remembered. At four in the morning. _How thoughtful of him_, John grumbled to himself.

The sound of a small huff of exhaled breath brought his thoughts back to the dark bedroom. John looked down at the head snuggled against his chest, and couldn't keep a fond smile from sneaking its way onto his face. He treasured these moments late at night, when Sherlock was sleeping. John would never tell, but it was at these times when he felt most strongly that Sherlock was _his_. Because, as few men (and even fewer women) knew, Sherlock was an inadvertent cuddler. They'd fall asleep on their respective pillows, but two or three hours later, John's chest would replace Sherlock's pillow and at least one gangly limb would be draped over John's body. There was something so bluntly honest about this unconscious possessiveness that John could never articulate, but he loved it all the same.

Rubbing his fingers lightly down Sherlock's spine, he pressed his lips to the dark ringlets of hair below his head and settled back onto his pillow to catch a few more hours of sleep.

His mobile lay forgotten on the nightstand.

_Gay marriage now legal in Britain. Happy anniversary._  
><em>-MH<em>

* * *

><p>Later that same day, while John was in the midst of a surgery, his mobile went off again unheard.<p>

_I assume you missed my previous message._  
><em>-MH<em>

He had.

* * *

><p>John had insisted that this year, they would both stay in and have a quiet dinner together for their anniversary. After all, he reasoned, a quiet dinner (much less together) was something neither of them frequently got. Sherlock grumbled, but eventually acquiesced. When it came time to actually start making the food, he had hung around the kitchen following John around like some sort of anxious puppy, making sure none of his experiments were disturbed, until John finally sat him down on the couch with a cup of tea and told him firmly, "<em>Stay<em> there."

Sherlock stayed.

Over dinner (which turned out excellent, despite the discovery that the butter was unusable due to the presence of severed fingers), John did most of the talking, and Sherlock listened, tilting his head to one side or the other at appropriate moments or letting his face ask the right questions. Sherlock pondered at times how odd it was for the two of them to fit so well together, like two pieces of a puzzle that didn't realize they belonged in the same box. He gazed across the table at John-_his _John-and for a brief second, smiled.

John, as always, saw.

With a rude buzzing, Sherlock's mobile vibrated sideways until it threatened to fall off the table. He snatched it up, mindful of John's pointed glare (he had been made to promise to take no cases tonight), to find a message from his brother.

"Mycroft," he said briefly, indicating the screen. "Won't be a moment." John nodded and Sherlock stepped out into the hallway to read the message.

_It appears John has been neglecting his mobile, or he would have shared the news by now._  
><em>Gay marriage is now legal in Britain.<em>  
><em>Happy anniversary.<em>  
><em>-MH<em>

For the first time in years, a bemused expression crossed Sherlock's face. As he stared at the message displayed on the screen of his mobile, the confusion was slowly replaced by another, equally unfamiliar feeling.

John looked up as Sherlock walked back in the room and halted a few steps inside the door. There was a bizarre mixture of emotions making their way across Sherlock's face as he managed to get out, "You should check your messages. Mycroft says you've missed one."

"Sherlock, what-" The lanky man shook his head vigorously and John stopped. Raising his hands in surrender, he dug in his jacket pocket for his mobile and pulled up his inbox as Sherlock walked over to the table and sat down again. Breathless, he watched John's face as he read the message in full for the first time. Astonishment flushed his cheeks as he read it a second, then a third time. Finally, he raised his head and stared at Sherlock, an unrecognizable expression in his eyes. This was alarming to Sherlock, who had cataloged and categorized every expression he had ever seen on John's face.

Unaccountably afraid, he murmured, "John?"

"Is-is he kidding?" John choked out, his voice significantly higher in pitch than normal. Sherlock only shook his head in response, his eyes bright. He had one hand in his pocket, which was gently fiddling with a small object he kept there at all times.

Both men stared at each other in silence, each with a hand in a pocket. Suddenly, both blurted out at the same time, "I have something to ask you." Sherlock grinned and gestured with his free hand. _You first_. John shook his head emphatically. _No, you. _One dark eyebrow arched over a crystal blue eye. _Both together, then? _A nod from John. Slowly, both drew their hands from their pockets and placed them palm down on the table, depositing their contents on the wood.

When they drew their hands back, two golden rings lay gleaming on the tabletop.

Their eyes met, and locked. In silence, one raised brow served to ask the question that sat in front of them. John closed his eyes as he gave the tiniest of nods. When he looked up again at his consulting detective, he saw an expression he had never seen before on that beloved face.

It was pure, unabashed joy.

* * *

><p>Forgotten on the table, Sherlock's phone buzzed one final time.<p>

_You're welcome._  
><em>-MH <em>


End file.
